Come Together to Save the Day
by NeoVenus22
Summary: PRMF. Various short, unrelated oneshot ficlets for Mystic Force. Formerly known as 'Shorts'.
1. PRMF: Learning to Ride

NEW: Anyone paying attention might notice that this "story" was previously known as "Shorts" (and before that, "One At A Time"), and housed ficlets from various seasons of Power Rangers. For clarity's sake, I decided to break up all these ficlets and house different archives by season. "Come Together to Save the Day" is the archive for my Mystic Force ficlets.

Remember, these aren't chronological, aren't related to one another, and might not take place within the context of the season.

Questions, comments, concerns, and even requests can be sent to me NeoVenus22 at .

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No challenge. Standard disclaimers apply. Vague allusions to "Code Busters".

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**Learning to Ride**

It wasn't hard to find Nick. It never was. He was usually in the school's parking lot, in front of the Rockporium, or in his sister's driveway, crouched in front of a motorcycle. Most of the time, it was his. Sometimes, it was one Madison didn't recognize. She wasn't sure if he was getting commissioned, or it was just a hobby, but just about every time she saw Nick that wasn't at school, work, or in 'uniform', he was working on a bike.

She approached him slowly, watching the way he flicked the wrench back and forth. She coughed to get his attention, and he looked up, a small smudge of black across his forehead. "Hi," he said.

"Hi," she answered, her hands folded behind her back. Then, not wanting to beat around the bush, she asked almost in a hurry, "Do you think you could teach me?"

Nick smirked slightly, standing up and wiping the grease off his hand with a red rag that was dirtier than he was. "You wanna learn how to fix her?"

"I want to learn how to ride," she corrected.

Nick's smirk turned into a full-on grin. "You're kidding, right?"

"Why would I be kidding?"

"Because you can travel through trees. Why would you need to learn how to ride a bike?"

"Maybe I just want to look as cool as you," she teased.

"We should get you the wardrobe first," he said. "How do you feel about leather?"

"Does it come in blue?"

"I'll see what I can do." Nick cocked his head at her thoughtfully. "You really wanna learn how to ride?"

Madison nodded. "I think it'd be cool."

He stared at her for a moment, then smiled. "All right. I can find some free time to give you lessons."

Madison felt a snag of guilt at his phrasing. "Oh, well, if you're busy—"

He cut her off quickly with a grin. "No. I'm not."

She smiled, hoping she wasn't blushing, and wondered why she was so embarrassed. "Thanks."

There was something incredibly sincere about the way he said, "No problem."

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The next week, learning how to mount and dismount in a manner that was efficient, painless, and cool-looking, Madison asked, "Why is it a she?"

"What?"

"Your motorcycle. You always refer to it as a 'her.'"

"Guys do that," he said with a grin, drumming his fingers over one of the headlights. "Ships were always referred to as shes, even if they were named after dudes. And I guess it just carried over to other vehicles. Cars." He patted the machine in question. "Bikes."

"Huh." Madison looked at the bike beneath her. "Does she have a name?"

To her surprise, Nick colored slightly, and ducked his head to shield his piercing eyes from her. "Yeah. But I'm not going to tell you."

Madison wondered if he'd named it after a girlfriend, and felt a hot surge of something. Jealousy, maybe, although she wasn't sure why.

"What about you?" he said.

Madison smiled blandly. "I'm Madison."

"Funny. I meant your camera. Did you name it?"

Madison blushed again, but this time, Nick had nothing to do with it. "Steven."

He choked trying to hide a laugh. "Steven." She nodded once, curtly. "As in, Spielberg?" She nodded again. "Why not a female director?" he asked. "Sofia Coppola or somebody."

She was intrigued that he even knew who Sofia Coppola was —he didn't strike her as the type— but she was more concerned with defending her choice. "I happen to love Spielberg's work."

Nick stared at her flatly, trying to judge if she was serious, or what, she didn't know. "Yeah."

"I've seen Jaws twenty-eight times," she continued.

"Twenty-eight?"

Grinning, she flipped her hair over one shoulder. "Well, I _am_ the one with the Mermaid Titan," she teased in the girliest voice she could manage, one that would make Vida scream if she could hear.

To her pleasure, Nick laughed. "You've got me there." Nick interrupted the glow of what was becoming their first real comfortable silence to comment, "But I thought you did documentaries."

"That doesn't mean I can't admire Spielberg," she said. "He's done some really beautiful work cinematically, and there's no law that says that documentaries have to be dull and un-beautiful. Are you going to teach me how to ride for real now?"

Taken aback by her sharp subject change, he stammered, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You've taught me about helmets, kickstands, and looking cool. I think you're stalling." She tried to engage him with her most trustworthy smile. "C'mon, Nick, if I can handle the Mystic Racers —which, by the way, _fly_— I think I can handle your little bike." She tapped her fingers lightly on the machine, out of Nick's eyesight, waiting to see if he'd take the bait.

Nick sighed. "Fine."

"Cool," she said, smiling brightly.

And he smiled back.


	2. PRMF: The Old Apartment

Challenge: PRMF, Xander/Madison

Disclaimer: No one mentioned belongs to me.

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**The Old Apartment**

Six months after Madison had unofficially adopted Xander as her roommate (and live-in boyfriend), he still hadn't managed to master the concept of the laundry hamper, but there was always water boiling on the stove for tea when she woke up. She didn't know how he could manage to be awake every morning, showered, dressed, and fixing breakfast by the time she dared to crawl out of bed, but he always managed it with a smile.

And Madison was endlessly grateful for his support. The main focus of her freakouts and periodic pity-parties had shifted from That Break-Up with That Boy to the simultaneous awesomeness and soul-crushing madness of her job over at NBC.

She stumbled home wearily one evening, vision blurring from hours spent in front of a monitor, editing footage. "Have you eaten?" asked Xander, coming out of the kitchen, dusting off his hands. "There'll be chicken in a few minutes if you haven't."

Madison abandoned her own rules and dumped her handbag on the floor unceremoniously. "Chicken, I love chicken," she murmured to no one in particular as she sank onto the couch. She grabbed one of the throw pillows and dragged it over her face.

"Long day?" Xander's voice carried over her, and though the pillow brought down the volume somewhat, it couldn't mute the sympathy.

"Exhausting day," she moaned.

Xander gently pulled the pillow off her face. One of her hands lifted from her lap and reached for it unconsciously, half-heartedly. "No sulking," he said.

"I'm not sulking. I'm resting."

"Anything I can do to lift your spirits?" asked Xander teasingly, plopping next to her and wrapping his arms around her.

Madison murmured into his shoulder. "Maybe. I don't know. I'm too tired. You think of something."

"I can think of a few things." He kissed her forehead, her cheek, her jaw, before finally finding his way to her mouth. Madison murmured as his tongue slipped past her lips, but what should have been many happy, relaxing moments passed quickly, and she pulled back. "Xander."

"What," he said lazily, with the heavy-lidded, hazy grin of someone getting ready for things to get interesting.

"Xander, the chicken."

"The what?"

"The chicken," she repeated, the pungent smell flooding into the living room, the timer echoing tinnily elsewhere.

"Damn." He jumped to his feet and headed off, but not before leaning back and asking, "later?"

"If I'm not too tired," she joked.

Xander grinned brightly, "You won't be."


End file.
